Beyond These Four Walls
by flamablechoklit
Summary: A glimpse at Mello's inner self. Rather depressing, read at your own risk. Posted for and written by a friend.


**AN:** I DID NOT WRITE THIS! All the credit goes to my dear Gabi! I wuvz her! She wrote this for her creative writing class.  
(Which I am supposed to be in, but my counselor is stupid! Gah!) Anyway, I read it outside during homeroom (lunch on the lawn for juniors today! wootwoot!) and I felt the need to post it here. I see it as Mello's inner being...or something. I can't really explain it. Gabi loves Mello; She said he was the inspiration for this.

**Warnings:** This is depressing. And, one word: SYMBOLISM! O.O

**Disclaimer:** Gabi does not own Mello, nor do I. Gabi does own this flicet though.

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It's just another dreary day within these four walls. They look down upon me. Towering over me cold, dark, and lonely. I stare at them trying to look beyond. The walls are thick and full of mystery and despair. When I was young, these defensive structures were black and white. But as the years went by, they faded into various shades of gloomy gray. I long for them to go back to their former shades. Back then things were so simple. Now the room is full of questions and uncertainty.

I sit here gazing at the wall opposite me. Right in front of me stands a tall, black, gruesome door. It's face is an empty black. The trim lining of the door is a very intense white. It's handle is round, huge, and bright red in color. Even though the years have transformed these walls, the door remains black and white. This door has been present in the room since I can remember. But as the years go by, the door has come more and more to my attention.

I lay my disoriented head in my rough, chilly hands. I steadily look down at the cold, rock hard floor. It wasn't always made of stone. A long, long time ago, it was a soft, thick rosy colored carpet. I used to lie on it and look up at the tall ceilings of this room without any care at all. As time passed, the carpet wore. Now all that is left is the cold stone and bricks beneath.

The ceilings used to be so much taller. At one time, they were so incredibly tall that there seemed to be no end. But as the days went by, the ceiling lowered, closer and closer to the floor. The walls also seemed to be closing in. The room itself seems to be getting smaller and smaller with time. And even though the walls and ceiling keep changing, the door remains the same. Tall and ominous, it's red handle glistening in the darkness.

As I sit here, drifting into endless thought, I begin to weep. Tears start to roll down my sunken in cheeks and drip from my thin, sharp chin, one after another. The pain that once took over my whole body has turned numb.

I turn around and look down.

I am sitting on my bed. I sleep on a bed of roses. But now, the roses have all died and I am left with a bed of thorns. There is nowhere soft in my room to lay my head upon. The whole room is sonorous in pain and darkness. A few years ago, the roses were still full of life. They survived by the light that used to come into the room before it turned into a dark, miserable pit. The light came from the window that sits behind me, on the wall opposite the door. I look fixedly at the window, and I notice the muck has built up even more on it's dull glass. I would have broken through it long ago, if it were not for the cast iron bars that hold me in like a prisoner.

The light gave life, not only to the flowers, but to me as well; it brought me happiness and joy. The sunshine was something to look forward to every day. It brought me warmth and peace. Without it now, the room is dark and cold. The roses that make up my bed have lost their glorious red petals that used to fragrance the room. Now, I have no concept of day or night. I truly don't know how many years I have been confined to these four walls. All that is left are these thorns, needles of hate, the only place left to lay my head. The carpet is torn to pieces, roses all withered and dead, and the walls faded and uneven.

I have lost my color over the years as well. My hair used to be lone, soft and blonde. Now it is short, scraggly and coarse. My skin used to have a rosy, joyous glow about it. My face was full, and my body strong and healthy. Now my skin has turned a ghostly white, with a hint of gray, like the wall... My face has sunken in and lost it's glow. My once blue eyes have darkened drastically, and are now almost black. Fingers that were long and slender with healthy nails are now like those of a skeleton, with yellowing nails.

I look at the door with a sense of longing. It used to look so threatening, so fearful. Now it's glowing, red handle almost looks inviting. My whole body has gone numb. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even still alive. But then I think, if I were dead, I would no longer be trapped within these standing structures that block me from whatever lies outside them. I have been speculating for many years what could be behind this door. If I were to open it, what would I find? Would there just be another wall? Nothing at all? Would it lead to another room that has another door, going on forever? Would I finally find the outside, where the light is bright and shining without limits? What could possibly be beyond this never opened portal?

Years ago, or at least what I think to be years, I tried to open the door. I found that there was nothing left for me in this room and I wanted out. I wanted to know what lies beyond these four walls. I walked up to the door, placed my hand on the knob, and began to turn it. Right before I was about to pull it open, I panicked. I was scared to know what lies beyond the dark. Since then, I have attempted to open the door many more times. But each time, I found myself unable to go through with it. I was frightened to know.

Today is the day. Or tonight is the night. Whatever time it is, it is time.

I stand slowly from my bed of thorns. I pull the needles from the backs of my legs and out of my palms. I see beads of blood trickling steadily from every hole but I do not feel the pain. I long to feel again, whether they be good feelings or bad. I want to know that I'm still alive.

I turn around for the last time, and look at what was once my window. I close my eyes and imagine the sunlight gleaming brightly through the immaculate glass once again. Then I open my eyes back to the filthy bars and, literally, stained glass. I turn around and face the opposite wall once again.

I start walking toward it, slowly and uncertainly. I walk over the cold, stone floor for the last time. I can hear the crunching of glass as I walk; I stop and look down. I bend and pick up a shard of glass. Gazing into it, I can see part of my disgusting face. I close my eyes and start to remember.

I can recall there being a full-length mirror that used to hang on the wall to the right of my bed. I can remember looking in it and seeing a very happy young me standing before it. My reflection was my only friend, my only family. I visited myself every day. But as time went by, I didn't like what I saw. I started to yell at myself. Finally, a few years ago, I attacked myself. I stood there watching myself shatter on the partially stone floor. The pieces of broken glass glinted with brilliant red.

I snap back to reality and continue walking toward the door. When I finally reach it, I stop and stare for a long time. Eventually, I place my hand on the blood red handle, and begin to turn it. I'm thinking about looking back. I close my eyes. Not this time.

"Farwell to thee, cruel room. May this door bring me eternal joy or endless doom."

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**AN: **The only changes I made to this were grammatical, nothing big. Remember, all credit goes to Gabi.  
Leave reviews. I'm printing them out for her.


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